Emily cut bread-and-butter and cake, and placed seats and arranged toys on tables all the morning.  The day was hot, though beautiful, and she was so busy that she had scarcely time for her breakfast.  The household party was in the gayest spirits.  Lady Maria was in her most amusing mood.  She had planned a drive to some interesting ruins for the afternoon of the next day, and a dinner-party for the evening.  Her favourite neighbours had just returned to their country-seat five miles away, and they were coming to the dinner, to her great satisfaction.  Most of her neighbours bored her, and she took them in doses at her dinners, as she would have taken medicine.  But the Lockyers were young and good-looking and clever, and she was always glad when they came to Loche during her stay at Mallowe.

“There is not a frump or a bore among them,” she said.  “In the country people are usually frumps when they are not bores, and bores when they are not frumps, and I am in danger of becoming both myself.  Six weeks of unalloyed dinner-parties, composed of certain people I know, would make me begin to wear moreen petticoats and talk about the deplorable condition of London society.”

She led all her flock out on to the lawn under the ilex-trees after breakfast.

“Let us go and encourage industry,” she said.  “We will watch Emily Fox-Seton working.  She is an example.”

Curiously enough, this was Miss Cora Brooke’s day.  She found herself actually walking across the lawn with Lord Walderhurst by her side.  She did not know how it happened, but it seemed to occur accidentally.

“We never talk to each other,” he said.

“Well,” answered Cora, “we have talked to other people a great deal—­at least I have.”

“Yes, you have talked a good deal,” said the marquis.

“Does that mean I have talked too much?”

He surveyed her prettiness through his glass.  Perhaps the holiday stir in the air gave him a festive moment.

“It means that you haven’t talked enough to me.  You have devoted yourself too much to the laying low of young Heriot.”

She laughed a trifle saucily.

“You are a very independent young lady,” remarked Walderhurst, with a lighter manner than usual.  “You ought to say something deprecatory or—­a little coy, perhaps.”

“I shan’t,” said Cora, composedly.

“Shan’t or won’t?” he inquired.  “They are both bad words for little girls—­or young ladies—­to use to their elders.”

“Both,” said Miss Cora Brooke, with a slightly pleased flush.  “Let us go over to the tents and see what poor Emily Fox-Seton is doing.”

“Poor Emily Fox-Seton,” said the marquis, non-committally.

They went, but they did not stay long.  The treat was taking form.  Emily Fox-Seton was hot and deeply engaged.  People were coming to her for orders.  She had a thousand things to do and to superintend the doing of.  The prizes for the races and the presents for the children must be arranged in order:  things for boys and things for girls, presents for little children and presents for big ones.  Nobody must be missed, and no one must be given the wrong thing.